The Quantum Trilogy, Book 2: Quantum of Solace
by Jorus C'baoth
Summary: Novelization of the 2008 film. Book 2 in my Bond fanfic series.
1. A Short Drive

_**1 / A Short Drive**_

The countryside between Lake Como and Siena, Italy was quite beautiful. Many hills, many roads, many tunnels. The man driving the gray Aston Martin DBS V-12 wished that he had the time to admire the beautiful country of Italy, but the bullets bouncing off of his bulletproof rear windshield were telling him that time was of the essence.

He shifted into the correct gear and sped around a corner into a tunnel, where a road crew were doing construction on one side. The men behind him, all driving black Land Rovers, fell into an almost perfect line behind him, each with a man hanging out a window waiting for their turn to shoot at the DBS.

The man again shifted, doing quick swerves to avoid not only the road crews, but other drivers as well. The men in the Land Rovers struggled to keep up, but most of them did. One hit a bulldozer as the group exited the tunnel, but the other two remained.

The man did a quick turn to avoid another bulldozer, but didn't miss it entirely, losing his driver's side door. A Land Rover pushed past a vehicle that had pulled over to the side due to a failure of some kind. The driver of the now-destroyed vehicle shouted, then called the police on his cell phone.

On a stretch of empty road, the man leaned out of the DB5 and fired off a few rounds from his silenced UMP-45, hitting the tires of one of the Land Rovers, as well as sending a good grouping of rounds into the engine, somehow causing the vehicle to spin up from the rear, then onto its roof. The man smiled.

The final Land Rover was difficult to dispatch, as the driver was excellent at swerving and missing any obstacles. Luckily for the man in the DB5, the police finally arrived from the earlier driver's cell phone call, and as the DB5 passed them, they screeched to a stop, and the driver of the Land Rover didn't have the chance to stop or slow down, and thus crashed into five police cars, killing only the driver of the Land Rover and his accompanying shooter.

When the DB5 pulled into the safehouse garage in Siena, Italy, the man straightened his tie, tossed his UMP in the passenger's seat and walked around to the trunk. He opened it and the captive inside, Mr. White, looked up in shock.

James Bond simply said, "It's time to get out."


	2. We Have People Everywhere

_**2 / "We Have People Everywhere"**_

Bond threw Mr. White into a chair in the interrogation garage of the Siena safehouse. The older man glared at him with disgust, and a hint of amusement. He ignored it, however, and walked upstairs to the overlook. M and her body guard, Craig Mitchell, stood there, M looking down at White, and Mitchel checking everything over with the various guards throughout the safehouse. Bond wasn't too happy about M being there. He'd told her to stay in London.

"The Americans will be none too happy about this," she said, not even looking at Bond.

He poured himself a glass of bourbon and took a quick drink. "Well, I promised them Le Chiffre and they got Le Chiffre."

"They got _his body_."

"If they'd wanted his soul, they should have made a deal with a priest." Bond allowed himself a faint smile. M did not.

They turned toward each other, and M's face tightened. She looked very concerned. "You look like hell. When's the last time you slept?" Bond said nothing, but it was clear that she knew it had been a long, long time.

Bond shrugged off her question and asked, "What are we offering him?"

"Protection in exchange for information. Hopefully, he'll give us his entire organization."

He gave a wry smile. White give up his organization? Not bloody likely. "And what about the inquiry?"

M led him over to a table with a collection of file folders. She opened one with the words _Vesper Lynd_ written on the tab. "Her lover was a man named Yusuf. No last name on record, it's possible that he entered the United Kingdom illegally. As far as getting records from the Algerians..."

"We're better of not trying," he finished for her.

She flipped to another page, showing a horribly deceased man, the flesh rended from his body. "His body washed up on the Thames, a few days ago. We're meant to believe the fish did _that_ to his body."

"Convenient."

"Exactly, which is why I had a DNA analysis done from a lock of his hair found in Ms. Lynd's apartment. It's not him."

Bond raised an eyebrow. "A lock of his hair?" He coughed out a small laugh. "Vesper didn't seem the sentimental type."

M closed the file folders. "Bond, as far as we know, he was innocent in Vesper's death."

" You're worried? Well, don't. I'm going to go chasing him," Bond nearly spat, "he's not _important_."

"I just need to know that you're not motivated by petty revenge."

"You don't need to worry about me."

M did absolutely nothing but keep her eyes locked on Bond for over a minute, before Mitchell walked in and said, "It's clear, ma'am." Bond had been so busy speaking with M that he hadn't noticed Mitchell's disappearance. He was getting worn.

Bond followed Mitchell, who followed M down the stairs and back into the room where White was tied to a chair and hooked up to a heart rate monitor. He couldn't tell if she'd noticed, but when M passed the guard by the stairwell, his body was lying there, dead. Bond kept an eye on Mitchell. No matter what duty an ex double oh was assigned to, a dead body was impossible to mistake.

Once they reached the interrogation room, Bond grabbed a chair, then slowly and loudly dragged it over to the tied up Mr. White. M picked up a file folder from the table Bond had snagged the chair from. "Mr. White, you're going to tell us who you're working for," M said, walking over to White, "and what their current plans are." Bond sat down on the chair and stared White down.

"Why would I do that?" White asked, carefully slurring his words to sound as though he were slightly out of it.

M opened the folder and dropped a photo down in his lap. "Le Chiffre, the man you hired for the Skyfleet job. How did you meet him?" White didn't answer. M dropped another photo down. "Vesper Lynd, the treasurer you hired to get the money after you had Le Chiffre killed. How long was she working for you?"

White looked directly at Bond. "I was quite sorry to hear about Vesper. Y'know, she really did love you. It was a shame she had to be eliminated." Bond clenched his fists, yet made no other movements. "It really was a shame. If she hadn't killed herself, we would have had _you_, too."

"Mr. White," M raised her voice, "you do know you're not in Britain, and Lord knows where you'll be tomorrow. Tell us what we want to know, and I can assure you asylum."

White laughed, looking away for only a moment. "You really don't know anything about us, do you? It's _so_ sad. We, on the other side, we're always saying 'oh, the MI6, the CIA, they're looking over our shoulders!' And the truth of it is, _you don't even know we exist_!"

M snapped the file folder closed. "Well we _do_ know, now, and I think you'll find that we're fast learners, so get on with the lessons, professor."

White continued smiling. "Well then, the first thing you should learn about is that we have people _everywhere_." White leaned to the left as much as he could. "Right, Mitchell?"

Bond's suspicions were confirmed. He sprung from the chair and pulled M to the ground the second Mitchell drew his P99 and put 9-mm bullets into the heads of the two agents standing along the far wall. Bond's own weapon was drawn, and he took potshots at Mitchell as he bolted out the door and into Sienna's sewers.

"Stay here," Bond said to M as he stood and sprinted after Mitchell. He slipped in a puddle just as Mitchell turned a corner. Slamming into the wall, Bond quickly kicked off of it and rounded the corner to find Mitchell hopping over an old sewage pipe. Mitchell quickly turned and popped off a few rounds in Bond's direction, but the bullets never found their mark—or so he thought. A grating above Bond's head came crashing down just after he passed by it. He gave it a second's glance and then continued to chase the traitorous ex double oh.

Bond caught up with Mitchell just as the traitor ascended a ladder into the streets of Sienna. Bond fired off two rounds, which hit the space just above Mitchell. The traitor fired off a trio of rounds which smacked into the sediment directly to Bond's left.

Bond followed Mitchell up the ladder and found himself in the middle of a busy Sienna street. Hundreds of people were gathered, shielding Mitchell involuntarily. Bond caught sight of him climbing a fire escape and fired two shots into the air, scattering the unsuspecting bystanders. Before he got to the top of the fire escape, Bond watched Mitchell jump from the upper section onto a building, where he nearly fell thanks to the loose shingles that covered the roof. Once Bond got to the top, he jumped as well, nearly suffering the same problem.

After a lengthy chase, Bond caught up to Mitchell just as the latter entered a steeple. Bond jumped inside from a rooftop and ascended the stairs to the bell tower. Once there, Bond swept the room with his P99, but there was no sign of Mitchell anywhere. Using Bond's search to his advantage, Mitchell pulled one of the ropes and got the bells starting. Bond spun around just in time for Mitchell to tackle him over the railing and into the stained glass dome which dominated the church.

Bond grabbed hold of a rope as he fell, which slowed his descent fast, but caused intense rope burn. Mitchell landed on the scaffolding in the center of the room. Clearly the church was undergoing renovations. Bond's P99 landed on the floor, just out of Bond's reach as he came to a stop thanks to his belt catching on the rope. Mitchell's gun landed on the second floor of the amphitheater.

Much to Bond's already considerable anger, the crane the rope was attached to began to rotate, furthering the distance between Bond and his P99. Mitchell awoke from his brief unconsciousness and began his search for his own weapon. When he didn't find it, he jumped for the rope Bond was attached to and slid down it, going for Bond's gun. Bond kicked the traitor, knocking him to the floor on the opposite side of the room.

Just as Mitchell grabbed Bond's weapon, Bond began climbing the rope before he passed Mitchell's P99. Mitchell fired off three rounds, but none of them found their mark thanks to the rotating crane. Bond undid his belt and leapt from the rope just as the fourth round broke it. Rolling in thin shards of glass, Bond found his hands curling around Mitchell's weapon.

Mitchell made his way up to the second floor of the amphitheater and fired one last bullet, which went one inch too high, hitting the beam behind his target. As he squeezed the trigger four more times, he found the weapon empty. Bond, on the other hand, squeezed his trigger only one time, and Mitchell's lifeless body crumpled to the floor. _So much for that lead,_ Bond thought.

111

Bond returned to the Sienna safehouse and discovered that White was gone. M, too, had left, though he'd known that before his arrival. With Mitchell dead and White gone, both of their leads to the organization White worked for were things of the past. M wasn't going to be happy, and neither was Bond.


	3. The Next Lead

_**3 / The Next Lead**_

Upon returning to London, Bond stopped at his flat and changed from his bloody suit into a clean one. His leg was still a little sore thanks to all the glass, but he showed absolutely no signs of injury.

Mitchell lived in an apartment building across the city from Bond's, and only a few blocks from Regeant's Park, and the building that no one knew was MI6 headquarters. The flat was well-furnished, giving only slight hints at the personality of the man who had lived inside. Bond stopped at a small table which held two photos: one of Mitchell and Bond during their time in the Royal Navy and one of Mitchell and M in her office. Neither photo even suggested that Mitchell was anything but the patriot he appeared to be until recently.

M stood on the covered balcony, holding a glass ashtray. Rain was pelting the building, a sudden storm having come from out of nowhere. When Bond approached, M started talking: "Mitchell worked for MI6 for eight years. _Eight years_. Five of them as my _personal bodyguard_." She held up the ashtray. "I found this, and three other bloody Christmas presents I've bought him, laying around the flat."

Bond could think of nothing more to say than: "I don't think he smoked."

M threw the ashtray down on the balcony floor, it shattered upon impact. "Eight years! And not so much as bloody hint that he was anything but the dedicated agent he told us he was! He passed a psychiatric evaluation every year." M turned and looked directly at Bond. "And you couldn't bring him in so that we could question him. You had to _kill_ him, taking away any chance at finding out who hired him and why!"

Bond took a small packet out of his pocket. "He was carrying these. Cyanide. Different from the pills given to MI6."

M took the packet and studied them for a moment. "Who the hell is this organization, Bond? How can they be everywhere and we know _nothing_ about them? When someone tells you they have people everywhere, you expect it to be hyperbole! _Flourists_ use that expression! It doesn't mean they've got someone working for them in the bloody room!" She calmed down just a little. "I assume you found no trace of White."

"The man guarding the door to the garage was dead when you passed him on the stairs."

"I passed him on the _stairs_? Good Christ!"

"Mitchell must have killed him when he went down to check the perimeter." He said in a softer voice, "You're lucky to be alive."

M shook her head. She clearly didn't find herself lucky. A cell phone rang, and M produced hers from her pocket. "Yes?" After a few moments, she said, "We're on our way." Bond was already holding the door open for her.

111

Bond left his coat with the woman at the front desk once they entered MI6 headquarters. She assured him it would make it to his office. He and M met up with Bill Tanner on the third floor, where he gave them the little information they already had on Mitchell. "Craig Mitchell, 45 years old, member of the double oh section for five years. No family, no executors, gave generously to chairity."

M sighed. "Please tell me you have more than that."

Tanner shook his head. "Not really, sadly. Mitchell kept his private life well hidden, which was probably how he hid his connections to White's organization. We _do_ have a man working on the bills Mitchell was caryying."

"How much did he have on him?"

"Less than a hundred pounds. And about the same in euros and dollars."

A thin man, with scruffy hair walked into the hallway with them, carrying a clipboard. "Excuse me, ma'am, follow me." He turned to Bond and a look of confusion swept his face. "I'm sorry, sir, have we met?"

Tanner took care of the introductions. "Sorry. Chief Whittingham, James Bond. Chief Whittingham is the head of Special Information, up on the sixth floor. He was the man investigating if Mitchell left a paper trail."

"What have you found, Whittingham?" M asked.

"That's what I need you to follow me for, ma'am."

Bond, M and Tanner followed Whittingham to his office on the sixth floor. A spartan room, dominated by a large table display computer. A similar display took up the wall opposite the door. Bond noticed the only other furnishing in the room was a security camera overlooking the whole thing. He wondered if White's organization had already stolen their camera records.

"As you know, ma'am," Whittingham started, "we introduced marked bills into Le Chiffre's money laundering scheme by intercepting illegal payoffs. Mitchell was carrying at least ten marked bills, possibly from his last payment by White's organization."

M sighed. "That's pretty thin. The way money changes hands nowadays, you could probably find a tenner in _my_ wallet with a tag."

Tanner continued: "Yes, ma'am, a single bill could mean nothing, and we have absolutely no way of knowing if all of these bills came to Mitchell at the same time, but what about a whole stack of bills, from the same set as Mitchell's?" He tapped a few touch-screen buttons on the table, displaying Port-au-prince, Haiti. "These bills were just scanned at a bank in Port-au-Prince, and carry the same electronic signature as the bills in Mitchell's account. They were registered in the account of a Mr. Slate."

Bond asked, "What have you got?"

Tanner nodded. "Mr. Edmund Slate, an Englishman. He just traveled to Haiti from Heathrow last night. It fits the timeline, he could have been contacted by White after his escape."

M turned to Bond. "Get some things together. You're on the next flight to Port-au-Prince." Bond nodded, then turned to leave the room. M grabbed his arm just before he walked out the door. "And, Bond, do try to question him first."

111

Bond had never liked Port-au-Prince. It usually stank, it was _always_ hot, and the place simply had the look and feel of a sewer above ground. Granted, that was fairly true of _all_ of Haiti. The place would never be a tourist attraction. He could only hope that he wasn't there long.

His cell phone rang about five minutes after he was off the plane. _"Edmund Slate is currently occupying room three-two-five at the Hotel Dessalines,"_ Tanner said, then hung up. Bill had never been one for talk, that was the only problem Bond truly had with the man. He was efficient, his wit was deadly and if you needed a desk-sitter at your side, he was a top killer. After they'd both left the service (Bond, the Royal Navy; Tanner, the British Air Force), Bond was surprised to find his old friend sitting behind a desk outside M's office.

The hotel looked just as good as every other building in the city, though its outside appearance hid a surprisingly clean and well-kept interior. Granted, full clothes lines were running across the stair well, and the room numbers were marked beside the doors with simple black chalk, but the place looked better inside than out.

Room 325 was locked when Bond arrived, possibly meaning that Slate off somewhere, conducting whatever business he was in. Using the standard kit, Bond picked the lock and quietly entered the room. The entrance was a simple hallway, which led into the main room. An armoire took up one corner, beside the sliding glass door which led to the balcony.

As he passed the open bathroom door, Bond heard a noise which sounded like slim metal being drawn. Just a second before the pocket knife appeared, Bond kicked the man inside and knocked him into the bathtub. He leapt out from the tub and threw his knife at Bond, who ducked just in time. The man rushed out of the bathroom and Bond grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him into the wall opposite the bathroom door. He kicked Bond in the stomach and then pushed him into a very dirty couch which sat in front of a television.

Bond kicked Slate—he could see now that it _was_ Slate—and then grabbed a hold of his shirt again. This time, he pushed Slate into the sliding glass door, and followed him through. The glass cut through his left arm, but Slate had taken the brunt of the fall. Blood was spilling out of his neck, and Bond could tell that he wasn't long for this world. _M's not gonna like this._

Bond walked inside and opened the armoire. He took out a shirt and ripped it into strips to use as bandages. After that, he took the room key from Slate's pocket, along with a generous helping of money, then slipped on one of the dead man's jackets, to hide the bandaged cuts on his arm.

He walked downstairs and, just before leaving, decided to walk over to the front desk instead. "Any messages for three-two-five?" he asked the woman working there.

"No, sir, just the one about the briefcase that arrived earlier. Would you like us to keep holding it for you?"

"No, I'll take that now." The woman reached under her desk and produced a silver, metal case. Bond took it, exchanged 'thank you's with the woman and promptly left.

Once outside, a small VW drove up beside him, and the shadowed woman inside said, "Get in."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, 'get in'."

Bond assumed it must have had something to do with the briefcase. He opened the passenger door and slipped inside. Once inside, he got a better look at the woman driving. A beautifully tan woman, with black hair down to her shoulders. At first glance he would have assumed her to be Bolivian, or possibly Cuban, but she had the same facial hardness that came from a Russian.

"You're late," she said, once they were on the road. A Bolivian accent mixed with a Russian accent. This woman was quite interesting.

"I got held up."

"Anyone I know?"

"A friend of Mr. White's."

She shot him a confused look. "I don't think I know him." Though still tense, Bond was slightly more at ease. If this woman wasn't affiliated with White or his organization, she wasn't much of a threat. "Is this guy a friend of yours?" she acknowledged a man on a dirt bike following them.

"I don't have any friends," Bond said, which seemed to be what she wanted to hear. She put her foot down on the pedal and pushed ahead, leaving the man on the bike in the dust.

"Did Dominic give you any trouble?"

"No."

She pulled them into an alleyway. "We didn't settle on a price."

"Make me an offer."

"Let me see the goods." Bond opened the briefcase and revealed several sheets of paper, what looked like geology reports, but that was it. He handed them over to her and continued to check the briefcase. Something didn't add up, the briefcase was too heavy to simply be papers. He slipped his fingers along the insides and discovered the false bottom, just as he thought. "What the hell is this?" she asked, looking over at him and seeing the .22-caliber handgun next to a photograph of her.

"I think someone wants to kill you."

With ample reflexes, even by Bond's standards, the woman grabbed the handgun from the briefcase and aimed it at Bond, who moved out of the way just as she fired a round. She dropped the gun back in the briefcase, then pushed Bond into the passenger door.

Bond sighed. _That wasn't very nice._ He took the picture of her he'd stolen from the briefcase and looked on the back. 'Camille Montes' was written there, in small letters. _Nice to meet you, Camille._ As if to interrupt his thoughts, the man on the dirt bike drove up and stopped beside him. "You were supposed to shoot her," he said, looking disappointed. The man obviously thought Bond was the assassin, Slate.

"Yeah, well, I missed," he said, just before he elbowed the man in the face, then kicked him in the neck. If he wasn't dead, he'd be unconscious for hours. Bond stood the motorcycle up and hopped on, speeding after Camille's small VW. Unlike the man he'd stolen the bike from, he kept back far enough not to be noticed.

His cell phone rang. _"Bond, it's Tanner, M wants an update."_

"I'm following a girl named Camille Montes, look her up, please."

"_M wants to know about Edmund Slate."_

"Tell her Slate was a dead end."

111

M and Tanner stopped just outside the doors to MI6 headquarters at Regeant's Park. "Ask him about Slate," M told Tanner.

"M wants to know about Edmund Slate," Tanner spoke into the phone, then waited for a response. "He says Slate was a dead end."

"_Dammit!_ He killed him."


	4. A Greene Situation

_**4 / A Greene Situation**_

Bond followed Camille to the docks, where she got out of her VW and stalked past the man at the gate. He attempted to stop her, but it was fruitless. Once she was through, Bond got off the bike and walked up to the gate. "Excuse me?" he said to the man there. Once the man got close, Bond slammed his fist into his face. He took the man's keys and opened the gate, drawing his P99 and screwing on a suppressor.

He hadn't seen where Camille went, but it wasn't difficult to figure out. There was only one building to enter and only one entrance. He hugged the wall and carefully peeked inside the building. The first room was a small 'reception area', so to speak. It was a simple wooden desk, wooden chair, two metal filing cabinets and a Dominican woman not really getting cooled down by the small fan on her desk. When she turned around and started looking for things in the filing cabinets, Bond quietly slipped in and made his way to the nearest wall out of her sight.

Two doors were open to him: one to the left and one to the right. Both seemed to lead outside, and to other buildings. He picked the one to the right because he heard voices from the one to the left. His choice led him to a small courtyard-like area, with a storage garage straight ahead and a different section of the original building to the left.

Keeping against the wall, he slipped into the first door he came to on the left, which apparently was a store room. Boxes were piled up all over the room, but Bond could see another door on the opposite wall and to the left, diagonal from the door he was at right now. Climbing on top of the boxes, he made his way across the room and back outside into an offloading area for small boats. He spotted Camille entering a boathouse across the yard from him.

Silently, he made his way to the boathouse, avoiding several guards. Whatever this boathouse was used for, it wasn't legal. Then again, Bond wondered what _was_ legal in Port-au-Prince. He climbed up a large pipe and into a window, where he found himself on a catwalk overlooking the boathouse. Camille had just walked up to a man in an unbuttoned white shirt.

"Dominic, are you surprised to see me?"

The man he could only assume was Dominic sighed. "I knew we shouldn't have slept together."

"So you _did_ just try to have me killed?"

"And I regretted every second of it."

"Bullshit!" she shouted, slapping him. "I was loyal to you!"

Dominic rubbed his cheek. "Please, don't talk to me _as if I'm stupid!_" He made a 'follow me' gesture, and led them outside and onto the docks.

Bond slipped back out the window and down the pipe, and hopped over the fence, landing on the docks, a good ways from Camille and Dominic. He quickly pulled out his cell phone and took a picture of Dominic. One button press, and it was in the hands of the MI6 analysts.

"I hate it when people talk about me behind my back," Dominic said, grabbing Camille by the wrist and pulling her to the edge of the dock, "it makes me feel like... like there's ants under my skin."

"What are you talking about, Dominic?"

"Do you recognize him?" He pointed at something in the water. Using the camera on his phone, Bond zoomed in on the spot Dominic was pointing at. A body had sunken to the bottom of the bay.

"No," Camille said, shakily.

"Such a shame, because he's one of my best _geologists_." And the mystery of Slate's first target was solved. Clearly, Camille had never met the man she was buying geology reports from. "Did you really think I didn't know?" A yacht pulled into the harbor, a stark contrast to the shoddy boats that littered the marina. "And you know, the worst part was the feeling that you were only sleeping with me to get to General Medrano."

Bond spotted another motorbike and hopped onto it, finding the key already in the ignition. He spotted the words _Greene Planet_ on the side of the yacht.

Camille looked at the man walking off of the yacht—no doubt General Medrano, by the way he was walking—and asked, "Is that him?"

"Yes, and I'm just about to close a deal with him." He patted Camille on her backside and walked away from her. A man who wore a similar shirt to Dominic grabbed Camille by the arm and started walking her to the boat.

111

Dominic Greene loved days like this. He was about to finish up his plans with General Medrano and deal with Camille Montes all in one fell swoop. Life couldn't get any better. "General!" he said, arms open in celebration. "Nice to see you again."

"Dominic," the general said in his thick, booming voice, "it's nice to see you again."

"Wonderful country, isn't this? Haiti. I just love how the big businesses call us here to do their dirty work."

"And what do you intend to do for me?"

Dominic patted the general on the back, but ignored his question. "The locals elect a priest who raises minimum wage from thirty-eight cents to one dollar a day, which wasn't a lot, but it was enough to upset those same big businesses who had us install the priest in the first place. So, we stepped in and instigated a change."

"And in Bolivia?"

Dominic smiled. "In your country, we've begun a similar process, and we're prepared to put you in the place of the current administration. For a certain price, of course."

Medrano took off his sunglasses. "How much do you want?"

"It's not a matter of money, general, it's land we want. A desert, to be specific." He pulled a map from his back pocket and handed it to the older man, pointing at the desert that his organization wanted.

"This land is worthless."

"Well, then. You're getting a good deal."

"You won't find oil there."

"Fine. But _we_ own whatever we find."

"All right, you'll have your land. Just make sure everything is in order."

"Of course. Say, you wouldn't happen to remember Colonel ErnestoMontes, would you?"

"Ah, yes. Ernesto... He had a very beautiful Russian wife, _a dancer_."

"Well," Dominic let himself smile some more, "his daughter works for me, and I'm having Elvis deliver her to your yacht as we speak."

He pointed to Camille on the yacht, and Medrano took a good long look at her. "Is that her? She's a beautiful woman, but I don't see the resemblance."

"Her name is Camille, and she's very anxious to meet you, general. Just remember to drop her over the side when you're finished."

111

Bond rode the bike as quietly as he could onto the docks, slipping over a boat that was off-loading, trying to get as close as possible to the yacht. General Medrano returned had returned to the yacht, however, and it was already back out into the water. Dumping the bike off next to a small fishing boat, he pulled the boat's owner away from his vessel and hit the starter.

He followed the yacht until the crew aboard noticed him, and started shooting. He ducked behind the control podium and pulled out his P99. He fired off rounds in the general direction of his attackers, but couldn't tell if he was hitting them. When he got close enough for Camille to see him, he shouted, "Jump!"

Camille jumped from the yacht, landing hard on Bond's stolen boat. He could tell Medrano was furious, by the tone of his shouting.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Camille shouted at him.

"Rescuing you seemed like a good idea at the time!" Bond shouted, struggling to be heard over the gunshots and the boat engines.

"I was trying to deal with Medrano! The men he was using on that yacht work for Greene!"

"Dominic Greene?"

"Yes!"

Bullets peppered the back of the boat, stalling out the engine. "Navigate!" Bond shouted, quickly firing two more bursts of 9-mm ammunition while he set to work getting the engine working. Luckily, their momentum kept them going forward, for a moment. It took three pulls of the cord, but the engine kicked back on. "Move!" he commanded, taking the wheel and speeding up the boat substantially.

Off to the left and the right, more of Greene's men in speedboats came out from around the marinas and one of them rammed into their stolen boat. Camille shot the two men in the closest boat, then took out the driver of the other boat before his partner shot too many holes in the wooden bottom of their boat. Bond pushed her over to the now-empty speedboat and fired off a round at the last man, failing to hit him but sending him into a duck and cover position. He then hopped over to the speedboat.

Bond must have shoved Camille a little too hard, because she was unconscious. He quickly took the wheel and sped off, leaving Greene's people in the dust.

111

Bond pulled the boat into the closest marina away from Greene's and picked up the still-unconscious Camille. He passed by an American tourist and laid her by him. "Take care of her, please. She's a bit sea sick."

Minutes later, he found a truck that someone wasn't using and found that the keys were still in the ignition. He started it up, then pulled away from the marina. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed MI6.

"_Tanner."_

"Did you get my picture?"

"_Yes, we're working on identifying him."_

"Cross-match the photo with the name Dominic Greene."

"_That'll take a minute."_

"Bill, put her on."

M's voice came over the phone. _"I am on, Bond. Tell me what happened to Slate."_

"Don't worry about it."

"_You killed him."_

"I'm not dwelling on the past, I don't think you should, either."

"_Got it,"_ Tanner's voice returned, _"the photo is of Dominic Greene, the CEO of Greene Planet. They're an eco-preservation company, based in South America."_

"Do you have his location?"

"_He's getting on a plane, just a few miles south of you."_

Bond pulled the truck alongside the small airport's fence, where he saw four men boarding a plane. Two of them he didn't recognize, one was Dominic Greene, the last was Felix Leiter.

111

"Contact the Americans," M ordered Tanner.

"Contact: Central Intelligence Agency," he said to the computer mounted on the wall in M's office. A small picture of a phone appeared in the corner.

"_Central Intelligence Agency, how can we help MI6?" _a young receptionist asked once the call went through.

"Interest in Dominic Greene, Greene Planet?" M asked.

"_Please hold," _the receptionist said.

A new voice said, _"Hold for Gregory Beam, please."_ Tanner looked over at M, who was looking at him. Both of them knew that Gregory Beam was the section chief of the CIA's South American branch. _"Uh, hi,"_ Beam said, once he came on the phone, _"this is Gregory Beam. M? Is that you?"_

"Good... well, I suppose it would be afternoon there, wouldn't it, Gregory? Yes, what is your interest in Greene Planet's CEO, Dominic Greene?"

"_We have no interest in Dominic Greene at this time. Sorry you had to waste a phone call, M. Just have them put it on my tab, okay?"_

"Thank you, Gregory. Good bye." After the phone call ended, M said, "He's a person of _extreme_ interest."

Tanner said, "But he just..."

M cut him off, "I said the man's name and they transferred me to the section chief in South America. Tanner, how would she know to do that if they weren't tracking him?" She sighed. "Contact Bond. Tell him where Greene's plane is going, and get him on whatever flight gets him there as soon as possible."

111

Felix Leiter didn't like being on the same plane as someone heavily suspected of eco-terrorism, but Beam was adamant that he be there. He had to admit it, though, Greene took the _first class_ part of _first class asshole_ very seriously. At Greene's fully stocked bar, Felix fixed himself one of Bond's fancy martinis and then sat down in the seat across the aisle from his boss.

"So, Dominic, what can we do you for?" Beam asked the villain sitting across the table from him.

"Well, I think what we agreed to will probably work."

"You mean, we do nothing to stop a coup in Bolivia and in return, the US gets the oil you find."

"If it's oil you want."

Beam smiled. "You didn't find diamonds, did you?"

Greene smiled, too. "No. No we didn't."

"Oh, Dom... this plan of yours is ingenious. Digging underground, hiding from everybody who's there to see it, but you can't buy that much piping without somebody who _really_ looks noticing it."

"Well, with you mopping up things in the Middle East, South America is dropping like dominos, and dictators are on the rise everywhere. No one's around to notice. Now, General Medrano wants to be sure that some squad of Marines isn't just going to break down his door in the middle of the night."

Beam shrugged. "Well... we can hardly stop a coup in Bolivia that we know nothing about, can we?"

The last bit was directed at Felix, who shook his head. Greene's man—Elvis, Greene's cousin on his mother's side—whispered something to Greene, then pulled out his cell phone.

"Ah, yes. What can you tell me about this man?" Greene asked, handing the phone over to Beam.

"Gee, I don't know... Felix, do you know who this is?" Beam handed the phone to Felix.

Felix shook his head. "No. Never seen him before in my life," he lied. The picture on the phone was of the only man in the business Felix considered a friend: James Bond. He handed the phone back to Beam, who took another look at it.

"That's James Bond," Beam said, with no hesitation. He stared Felix down, knowing that he lied. "I don't know how I could have missed that."

"Well, I'm going to need him taken care of, because he's been snooping around my operation."

"I don't see that being a problem."


	5. The Opera's Not for Everyone

_**5 / "The Opera's Not for Everyone"**_

Bond landed in Bregenz, Austria and was, quite obviously, happy to be out of Haiti. Finally, a place that had real drinking water. He was still wearing Slate's dirty jacket, now torn in multiple places, and his own dirty jeans. He wished to find a place to change, but he had little time before the opera that Greene was scheduled to attend. He checked his P99 and screwed on a sound suppressor. _You never can be too careful_, he thought.

The opera house was a short drive away from the airport, and the entire time, the cab driver was mumbling something in German about the roads being horrible and in need of repair. Bond had no idea what he meant, as the ride was quite smooth and there wasn't a pothole as far as the eye could see, so he had a feeling the cab driver was either insane or very picky about roads.

Once he arrived at the opera house, he immediately noticed that it was clearly a black tie affair. No man was wearing anything but a tuxedo or a tailored dinner jacket and no woman was wearing anything short of the finest dresses laundered money could buy. Bond spotted several men entering the washrooms and made his way there. On his way, he stopped by a locker room and snagged a left-over tuxedo.

As he entered the restroom, he saw that several of the men who'd entered were carrying brown paper bags, each with an elegant letter _Q_ printed on the sides. He pretended to use a urinal while waiting for the majority of the men to exit. When there was only one man left, Bond elbowed him the face, stole his bag, and dumped him in the toilet stall. With any luck, he wouldn't wake up for hours.

Dumping the contents of the bag into the sink, he discovered a program for the performance that was taking stage in less than ten minutes; a collar pin microphone and an earpiece in the shape of a _Q_, similar to the one printed on the bag. He put in the earpiece and heard a message: _The meeting will take place once the opera has commenced. Please be in your appointed seat by that time._

"What were you up to?" he asked the unconscious man he'd dumped in the toilet stall. No doubt Greene had one of the earpieces, and was already waiting in his appointed seat, ready to begin this clandestine meeting. Bond tuned his cell phone to the same frequency used by the earpieces and set it to record. It would be transmitted to MI6, who would be able to decipher the voices and put them to faces. This would be their final conversation together.

111

After the opera began, Bond slipped behind stage and started climbing the catwalks embedded into the framework. The evil planners started their conversation just as he got to an adequate place to find them.

The first voice was Greene's: _"I'll begin with an update on the Tierra Project. We've already started working on the tunneling, and we'll be ready to start within the week."_

The second voice belonged to a Russian: _"How much pipeline is needed?"_

Greene: _"Ideally, two thousand kilometers."_

Bond scanned the audience with his phone and could barely believe his eyes when he saw a very familiar man, sitting as though he hadn't just been in MI6 custody three days ago. Mr. White was seated beside a woman in her mid-50s, and behind him stood a man of Middle Eastern decent. The same man who'd executed Le Chiffre on the boat six months ago. He was a bodyguard, by his posture, and carried himself with an undeniable authority that only one hardened by a lifetime of death could command. Bond snapped a picture of him, then sent it to MI6.

White: _"Are you sure the Tierra Project is an applicable use of Quantum's resources? What have we to gain from this, Dominic?"_

So, the organization was named Quantum. Not a very inspired choice, in Bond's opinion.

Greene: _"This is the world's most valuable resource, and we must control as much of it as possible."_

A woman: _"What about the Americans?"_

Greene: _"They're willing to accept Medrano, so long as we give them a cut of the profits."_

A Brit: _"They don't care what he does to the country?"_

Greene: _"They don't care about another dictator in Bolivia so long as they get their price. Call it the cost of immortality, if you will."_

White: _"You've convinced me, Dominic. What about you, sir?"_

The Brit: _"Yes. Proceed."_

Greene: _"Transfer the funds from our Siberian holdings."_

The Russian: _"Done."_

Greene: _"I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, this will be money worth spending."_

The Brit: _"Now that that's settled, does anyone have any other business?"_

Bond: "I'd like to make a suggestion, if I may?" There were various questions of _"Who's that?"_ from various different voices, including Greene's. Not White's, though. "I think you people need a new place to meet." Several of the members of Quantum stood from their seats, and started leaving the theater one by one. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked as he took quick snapshots of the various schemers. Not White. He didn't get up.

111

White shut off his microphone and waved Iblis to approach him. "Follow Bond. He's not to know about you."

Iblis simply nodded.

He whispered to his wife, "It looks like the opera's not for everyone."

111

Bond made his way down the scaffoldings and catwalks, occasionally knocking Quantum hitmen over the rails. It wasn't long before he returned to the foyer, finding Greene and several other Quantum members—and their escorts—leaving the building. He stood before them, ready to draw his P99 at the first second. Greene then said to his men, "Take care of him," and turned away from the upcoming carnage.

Bond ducked behind a set of stairs as a dozen rounds peppered it and the wall behind where he'd been standing. He blind-fired a group of bullets in the direction of the shooters, hitting at least one. When they stopped firing to reload, he took advantage of the situation and ducked into a kitchen. Two cooks gave him a surprised look, but their looks were wiped off their faces when two shooters burst into the room and peppered them with bullets. Bond took one of them down, but the other one caught him off guard with a shotgun burst straight into an oven.

Though screams were issued from the dining room, no one in the theaters could hear a single thing. Not only were the theaters sound proof, but the play that was capturing their attention also contained people shooting firearms, though their magazines were loaded with blanks.

Bond pushed over a table, and it was quickly destroyed by bullets. Quantum seemed to have no shortage of shooters and killers. He killed three more of them, but it seemed as though ten more took their place. He fired off a few more rounds as he ran up a flight of stairs.

Bond found himself on a roof, only two stories up. At the sound of running footsteps, he ducked beside the door and pointed his handgun directly where a man's head would be coming out. The killer who appeared was instantly surprised to find a gun pointed at his head. "Drop the gun," Bond said, silently wishing the P99 had a hammer to thumb back so that he could drive the threat home. After jamming the door closed, he pushed the man closer to the edge. "Who are you working for?" In response, the man tried to fall off the roof, but Bond caught his tie and held him up, but the killer knocked his hand away. Bond didn't even try to catch him this time, he simply walked back to the door and then back down the stairs.

111

Greene couldn't believe Bond's audacity. The man couldn't simply wouldn't _stop_. It was almost as if he had nothing better to do than assault Quantum and their interests worldwide. It wasn't enough for him to kill Le Chiffre, then kidnap White, now he was interfering with Dominic Greene! It wasn't acceptable.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of something landing on his car's hood. The driver stopped the car, and Elvis got out to investigate. When his cousin moved, Greene saw that the unidentified object was a man, a Quantum member by his lapel pin. "Is he one of ours?" he asked.

"No," Elvis answered.

"Then he shouldn't be looking at me." Greene put a hand in front of his face, hoping that the man would be unable to recognize him. He heard two gunshots and knew that the matter was dealt with. Hopefully, they'd find a way to pin that on Bond.

111

M was just about to step into her bathtub when her husband said, "Telephone, dear. Your personal line."

Tanner's voice came in clear over the device installed in her bathroom vanity. Several images appeared on the screen before her. _"The pictures Bond sent us have been identified, well, except for one. The Middle Easterner with White turned up no results."_

"And the others?"

"_First is Gregor Karakov, former Russian foreign minister, now owns half the mines in Sibera. Next is Moishe Soref, former Mossad, now telecom giant. The last one his Guy Haines, special envoy to the Prime Minister."_

"What?"

"_Yes. And that's not all, Haines' bodyguard was just discovered dead, seems Bond shot him and threw him off a roof."_

M sighed. _And I thought the embassy explosion was the limit of Bond's stupidity, how could I have been so foolish._ "Get me Bond, now."

After a moment, Bond's voice came on the phone. _"Did you get my pictures?"_

"We're identifying them now, but you just killed a man in Bregenz."

"_I did my best not to."_

"You shot him point blank and threw him off a roof, that hardly sounds like restraint to me, especially since he was a member of Special Branch."

Bond said nothing for a few moments, then asked, _"Who was he guarding?"_

"Are you deaf? I just told you that you killed a member of Special Branch, I need you to come in."

"_And I would, but right now, I have to find the men who tried to kill you. Get back to sleep."_ After that, he hung up. M shook her head, not at all ready to say the words she was about to say.

"Cancel his credit cards, put a hold on his passports, restrict his movements. I want Bond here and in custody within twenty-four hours."

"_Yes, ma'am,"_ Tanner said, a bit of regret in his voice.

"And Tanner, make sure you trust the people you tell any of this information. Hopefully, you're a better judge of character than I am."

111

"I'm sorry, sir, it's not going through," the attendant said with a sigh, handing Bond back his credit card. He was afraid of this. M had a hold placed on his cards, and likely his passports, too. "Do you have another one?"

"No." He took the card back and slipped it in his pocket. He knew that MI6 would now be aware that his card was scanned after it was cancelled, so he leaned close to the atendant and whispered to her, "You're going to get a phone call in a minute. Would you mind telling them I've gone to Cairo?"

She smiled. "It would be my pleasure, sir."

Bond turned and left, considering his options. There was only one person he could go to now, and it would take a hell of a lot of convincing for Mathis to believe him.


	6. Friends, New & Old

_**6 / Friends, Old & New**_

The short speed boat ride to Mathis' _modest_ villa was uneventful. Ever since the trial, after he'd been cleared, Mathis had never left the house. His lady friend, Gemma, did all his shopping and all of his bills were handled by MI6, just another mysterious mark on tax ledgers in London. Bond could only hope that his former friend was in a helpful mood.

Mathis was cleared when it was discovered that he'd been with Felix Leiter the entire time Vesper was getting text messages saying that they were going after Le Chiffre. Mathis and Leiter were breaking into Le Chiffre's room and finding his girlfriend, Valenka, dead on her hotel bed. Vesper had, in reality, received texts from Le Chiffre, showing pictures of a tortured Yusuf Kabira, in order to manipulate her in to giving them Bond. Mathis was off the hook, and placed into protective MI6 custody.

When he answered the door, Rene Mathis' smile drooped into a frown, and his face appeared to age at least five years. "What do you want?"

"Just a little of your time. I need your help."

Mathis turned and called Gemma to take Bond's coat, which he handed over to the pleasant looking woman with no question. She wore a one-piece bathing suit, open in the front to reveal her cleavage. The image was not an ugly one, and Bond decided that he and Mathis had more in common that he'd originally thought.

"You need _my_ help?" Mathis asked, sitting down at table on his second-story deck. "Doesn't MI6 have a locator chip in you?"

"No. They discontinued that when Le Chiffre ripped mine out of my arm six months ago."

"Don't remind me about those days, please."

"What's the matter with that?" Gemma asked, speaking Italian. Likely, she assumed Bond didn't understand the language. "If it weren't for those days, you wouldn't live in this lovely house, with _my_ constant company."

Mathis took off the sunglasses he was wearing. He, too, spoke in Italian. "Gemma, do you know who this man is?"

"Yes, what of it? They found you innocent, and now they pay for your rent and your grocery money—seems to me like _you_ owe _them_."

Bond smiled, and Mathis saw it. "Gemma," he said in English, "go work on your tan. This is man talk." He turned back to Bond. "So, why is it you need _my_ help?"

"Well, oddly enough, you're the only one I can trust."

"That _is_ odd. But, then again, when one's young, the lines between _right_ and _wrong_, _friend_ and _foe_... they're easier to see. When you get older, they're almost nonexistent. What's wrong?"

Bond took photographs from his pocket. The photos he'd taken at Bregenz. "Do you recognize any of these people?"

Mathis took a long look at each of the photos. He tossed the photo of the thin balding man down on the table first. "Moishe Soref." Next was a larger bald man, one who'd obviously come out of military service. "Stefan Pomerov." A fat man, with closely cropped hair. "Another Russian, Gregor Karakov." He came to the picture of the Middle Easterner behind White. "Iblis."

"Iblis?"

"It means 'devil' in—"

"I know what it means, but who's he?"

"What little I know about him—and I know so very little—he's the best killer in the business. M thought your little stunt at the embassy was too much, she'd probably have a heart attack after one of his operations. He's a very intimate killer, and not one you'd like to cross swords with, my friend." He picked up one of the other photos. "That's Guy Haines, didn't you know that?"

"Should I have?"

"I suppose not. You haven't been keeping secrets as long as I have. He's currently the special envoy to the Prime Minister himself. I'm surprised you couldn't tell by all of his security."

Bond remembered what M said, _'You just killed a member of Special Branch.'_ Now it made sense. "They mentioned something called the 'Tierra Project', do you know about it?"

Mathis shook his head. "No. What is it?"

"I don't know, but it's going down in Bolivia. It's headed up by Dominic Greene."

"Ah, _him_ I know." He took a sip of his drink. "So, what is it you _really_ need from me?"

"A passport and matching credit cards."

"MI6 run out of plastic?"

"No, they've burnt me. I killed one of Haines' body guards in Austria yesterday."

"Oh. James, James, James... I'll see what I can do."

111

Bond was fixing himself a second martini when Mathis walked into the room and tossed the passports onto the guest bed. He picked them up and saw one with his picture, Mr. Robert Sterling, and one with Mathis' picture, Mr. Howard Sterling.

"What's this?" he asked.

"I thought it would be best if we went together. I have us booked on a private flight to Bolivia this evening, as father and son. Your credit cards are already in the suitcases I had Gemma pack for you."

Bond stood up and walked over to the doorway, patting Mathis on the shoulder. "Thank you. I know how difficult it must have been to help me."

"Ah! You were doing your job, and Le Chiffre dropped my name. I was paranoid when I was your age, too." He laughed. "Actually, I'm _still_ paranoid, I just know when to hold it back, now."

111

Mathis walked into the plane's bar and found Bond drinking another martini. He chugged it back hard and set the glass back down in front of the bartender. "Another," he said, only vaguely aware of the slurring of his voice.

"Sir, that's your sixth."

"What're you drinking?" Mathis asked, sitting down next to him.

"I don't know," then to the bartender, "what am I drinking?"

The bartender, in a very annoyed tone of voice, answered, "Six measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lilet—which is _not_ Vermouth—shaken very well until it's ice cold and then served with a thin slice of lemon peel."

"Ah," Mathis said, "I'm sorry I asked. You can get some rest, Jerry, I'll mix the next few drinks."

"Thank you, sir."

Bond watched the bartender go and then asked, "Wuh... why'd he leave?"

"James, you're drunk," Mathis nearly laughed out. "What's really going on?"

Mathis fixed him another drink, which he sipped slowly, this time. "I'm drinking to fuh... forget."

"Forget what?"

"Not what. Who. Her."

"Vesper wouldn't want you to do this, James. She would want you to get on with your life."

"Why'd she do it, Rene? Why'd she betray me?"

Mathis sighed. "Vesper had a complicated situation, one that no one could save her from, except herself. She chose the only way out she could see."

"Giving the money over to White and killing herself was a way out?"

"She loved you, James. You, and you alone."

Bond held up his glass. "Can I get another?"

Mathis nodded. "This is the last one, okay? I think you should get some sleep after that."

"You should have one."

"No, that'll just keep me awake." Mathis smiled.

111

Through his hangover, Bond showed his passport to the desk clerk at La Paz airport in Bolivia. Mathis showed his, and he heard her whisper to her friend in Portuguese that Bond and Mathis didn't look like father and son. He smiled a little when he heard that.

A woman with chin-length, bright red hair, wearing a large, tan trench coat, held a cardboard sign that read _James Bond_ in delicate handwriting. Bond looked down at her long, luxurious legs, and smiled at her. As soon as she saw him, she said, "Mr. Bond, my name is Fields, I'm with the Home Office, and I've been sent to bring you in."

Bond looked up at her picturesque face. "Do those orders include my friend Mathis, here?"

She looked over at Mathis with a bit of surprise in her sparkling eyes. "Um... no... I'm sorry, sir."

He smiled, then looked over at Mathis. "See? Gone such a short time, and you've already been forgotten."

Mathis sighed. "You're just saying that to hurt me."

Bond and Mathis continued on their way to the taxi that Mathis had already rang for, much to Fields' surprise. She ran after them. "Mr. Bond, I'm to turn you right around and put you on the first flight back to London, and if you don't do as I say, I'm authorized to restrain you and leave you in a hotel room until such time as I can put you on a flight back to London. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," Bond said, taking his sunglasses off, despite the hangover. "And when is the next flight to London?"

"Tomorrow morning, why?"

He smiled, tossing his bags in the trunk of the cab. "Perfect, then we have all night."

"Just so you know, Mr. Bond, that I'm to carry out my orders especially if you make any untoward advances."

"Fine. Get in."

Both of them got in the back seat, Mathis sat beside the driver, who was carrying on about rain and his cousin's failed marriage, all the while Mathis was calling old friends that lived in Bolivia, specifically a Colonel Carlos Ramirez, who Mathis said could get them close to Greene. Bond intended to see this through no matter what M tried to do to stop him.

The cab driver pulled up to the hotel that Fields had given him the name of, one that made the Hotel Dessalines look like the London Hilton. Fields quickly made her way to the front desk, telling the receptionist their cover story. Bond took one look at the foyer and turned around, going back to the taxi. Fields followed him out and asked, "What do you think you're doing? This is where our reservation is!"

"So shoot me, I'd rather stay in a morgue."

"We are teachers on sabbatical, this fits our cover."

"No it doesn't. Get in," he said, holding the door for her. "_Get in_." Once she was in, he followed her, and told the driver to take them to the best hotel in La Paz. Once there, he walked up to the front desk and told the receptionist, "We're teachers on sabbatical, and we've just won the lottery, we'll take the best rooms you have available."

"Yes sir," the receptionist happily said.

111

Bond and Fields were given one room, and Mathis his own. The rooms were grand, elegant, predominantly white in color and had beds which could probably hold five people at a time. Bond nearly laughed at the elegance of it—or, he at least laughed at Fields for trying to take him to that dismal rat trap earlier.

He walked around the suite, checking the bathroom and the bedroom. He saw that Fields was still simply standing in the doorway, almost as if she was uncertain what to do. He cleared his throat, rather loudly, and then said, "I can't find the..." He looked around and spotted his excuse. "The _stationary_. Will you help me find it?"

She giggled.

111

Mathis knocked on Bond's door at around three o'clock in the afternoon. When the Double Oh answered the door, he was completely naked. "Yes?" Mathis handed him the invitation from Greene Planet. "I didn't know we had any friends at Greene Planet."

"I'll be meeting you there. I'm going to have some drinks with my friend, the colonel, and I'll be there before you."

"Alright," Bond said, tossing the invitation on the table beside the door. "I do hope this doesn't turn out messy." Mathis spotted Fields coming out of the bedroom, covered only in a sheet.

"I'll see you at seven, James."

Bond smiled. "I thought you'd say that."


End file.
